Whoever said that being an artist would be easy? That it would be void of doubt and self-bludgeoning? Whatever gave us the idea that a wild parrot named Inspiration would float to our tree’s branches every now and again and we could figure out for what reason it had arrived? Who ever told us that the tree was not ours to plant, and that it belonged to that overlord, Talent? That tree called Hard Work? Where a hundred thousand flocks of parrots might come in a bright descent if we took the time to plant, water, and nurture? What made us believe this name tag (“Artist”) was the very same thing as the flesh and blood that makes the art? That it was enough to tumult and grieve and burn. Make the art. What reason do you need but the simple math of it: Make and it will be made. There is no other way.